Page 42 of Made to Sin

“Mamma, where are we going?” I excitedly asked.

She lifted her head and looked at me with pain etched on herface as a new stream of tears marred her pretty cheeks. Trip forgotten, my lips started to quiver. I didn’t like seeing Mamma cry so much. It made me want to cry too.

“Don’t cry, my love. I’m only leaving for a little bit. I need to find us somewhere safe, and I’ll come for you soon. I promise.”

Safe? Weren’t we safe at home?

Maybe one of the bad guys came and looked for Papà again, so we had to move. But whatever it was, I wasn’t allowed to talk about Papà’s grown-up stuff anyway.

Mamma had never broken a promise before, so I decided to trust her. I knew she would deal with it. Plus, if we got to move to another house, I could have a whole new room!

Somewhere along my imagination of a new room and Mamma’s tears, the last thing I felt was a light kiss and a mumbled, “I love you,” against my forehead.

The next morning, Mamma wasn’t there to wake me up like every other morning. Instead, Papà’s yells did. He was angry, breaking everything in our house and saying bad words into the air.

I fearfully stayed in bed, hiding under the blanket, and prayed for Mamma to come home soon.

Little did I know, she broke her promise and never came back.

—

I thrashed awake from the recurrent nightmare that haunted me when I was lonely, when the demons hidden in the darkest corners came out. My tears freely flowed down from my face to the sweat-soaked sheets.

This time was my fault. I had invited them willingly, in need of comfort— even if it was misery. After getting back from Luciano’s club, I sulked in bed. Maria knew I was in a bad mood and gave me space. Nobody else in the house cared enough to check, so I was left alone to deal with the dreadfulness of my mind.

I regretted not hugging Mamma tighter when she pulled meto her chest. I regretted not begging to go with her. I regretted not telling her I loved her.

Everyone tried to convince me Mamma left because she was a bad person who didn’t want me anymore, but I knew the truth of what happened. I knew she was running from Papà, running from the life she was forced into before it ate her alive. She did something I only dreamt of doing.

But it was a good thing I didn’t follow her example. One could never run from theCosa Nostra, and they proved it when her bloodied limbs arrived at our front steps three days later.

Papà saw red, had another fit of rage, and charred her belongings over the bonfire in our backyard. Even when she was dead, he abused her. At a minimum, I hoped those three free days were the best days of her life.

Chillingly, her jewelry fell out before it melted and was still intact. I picked up her remaining items and washed them as best as my six-year-old self knew how to scrub. If I looked carefully, there were blood stains hidden in the crevices.

The awful memories swiveled in my head and wrenched my guts until I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran to the bathroom and threw up my breakfast, continuing to dry-heave when there was nothing left.

My airway closed on itself, suffocating me in the broken moment. I wheezed for air, grasping at any oxygen I could get, but nothing would come through. Frantically, I looked around the muted walls for help.

As if it were divine intervention, a baggie of white powder reflected against the light and lured me in. The glowing halo around it seduced me into its escapism, vowing to remove my pains and ebb my panic attacks for the time being.

My heart and lungs conflicted, arguing over whether or not I would find happiness at the end of a white line. My heart constricted at the temptation, urging me to flush it down the toiletas I had my vomit. I promised myself if Marco got better, if life got better, I would stop.

I knew if I started again, it would be too easy to keep going. My hard work the last few months to stay sober, attempting to break myself out of the vicious cycle, was going to be wasted.

Yet when my lungs pushed on my diaphragm, begging for air, how could I say no? How could I deny the breath I gravely needed?

With my panic attack not planning to make its exit anytime soon, I surrendered. I sobbed the whole time, but, once more, I found peace through the Camello’s famously imported powder on a sunny July afternoon.

See, one could never run from New York’s finest syndicates.

—

It was reckless, but coke made me do things I wouldn’t dare sober.

I stole a car.

Well, that was a tad dramatic. I didn’t steal a car, I gently borrowed one from Marco’s obnoxious collection.

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